A Brave Boy
by RishiGenki
Summary: Peter wants nothing more then to help win the war. But how can a little child defeat the enemy? Arthur has an idea as to help him. WWII. No pairings. Oneshot


_A Brave Boy_

_Characters: Arthur Kirkland and Peter Kirkland, pre-abandonment/pre-Sealand_

_Rated: K_

_Peter wants nothing more then to help win the war. But how can a little child defeat the enemy? Arthur has an idea as to help him._

The day was fairly young for young Peter Kirkland. Despite the threat of bombs during the nights, and being dreadfully bored during the day, the child was eager to help the war front. He wanted to go out and fight against the big bads, the Germans, and he wanted to do it so badly that his skin itched.

So that day, he decided, as he hopped aboard a boat to Essex, and then to Greenwich, where Arthur Kirkland—his father—lived, that he was going to help, no matter what. Arthur had been hesitant on letting the boy near any sort of warfare—but Peter was a _war fort_, after all, so he _simply must listen._

And so, as he approached the door, he reached out and knocked, a bit impatient.

"Arthur! Arthur, sir, please come out!"

Arthur himself was sitting at home, pouring over battle plans and formation layouts. His compass and several marking pencils were strewn to the side, and he bent over the map until his nose nearly touched it. Each route was planned and re-planned, alternatives being weighed and chosen for ease of use and quickness.

He wasn't really expecting anyone to come by that day, though, so he definitely jumped in his seat a bit when he heard a knock on the door. Peter's young voice came filtering through the door, and while he was rather irate at being interrupted, he couldn't be mad at the little boy. He just wanted to help, after all. So Arthur stood and folded up his reading glasses, tucking them neatly into a side pocket, then marched to the door and unlocked it carefully. Perhaps paranoia made him keep the chain-latch and the lock on at all times, or perhaps it was just prior experience. Either way he managed a nice smile at the thought of seeing his son-figure, and opened the door. "Yes, Peter? Is there something I can do for you?"

The child beamed up as he heard the latches unlocking—because it felt safe, somehow, to know that Arthur was keeping himself safe as well—and when it opened, he gave a salute. "Yes sir!" he chimed, keeping his back straight, though his toes were touching, making them a bit of a pidgeon toed look.

"I came to see you, sir! I want to help in the war, too!" he insisted, still in a salute. "I request papers in order to let me fight in the battles too! I'm not a human and I shan't die as easy as they can, and I really just want to pound some Nazi heads in! Oh sir, won't you please let me go?"

For a moment, he just blinked, mind scrambling to figure out something decent to say. Obviously he couldn't fit him with a uniform and send him out to the Western Front, but he couldn't just say no, either. Peter was simply attempting to do his job. But how to explain this to him without crushing his feelings? His mind continued to backpedal until he remembered a solution he'd come up with when a young America had desired to fight in the Seven Years War. Which had similarly been un-allowable, but he was able to direct that desire somewhere else.

"Well, Peter, I think I have just the thing. You see, I can't quite send you out to the front lines, because frankly I have enough fellows out there right now. However, I do desperately need someone here at home to do something very special for me, and I need to be positively sure I can trust them. So come in, come in. I'll tell you all about it." He held the door wide for the boy, not minding for once if he tracked in dirt or mud.

"Really? A job just for me?" he echoed, pleased with this. Clapping his hands together, the boy hopped from foot to foot in glee, momentarily forgetting that Arthur was of a much higher rank—because, after all, he was simply a child.. "Oh! That's wonderful! I would so very much like that!"

Peter flitted inside—though not before kicking off his dirt covered shoes, of course, he had to be polite—before racing into the halls, craning his neck to look at all the black and white photos, the portraits, everything. He inhaled, and the sent of England filled his nostrils. Sighing, in content, he turned back to Arthur, ready to continue. Giving another firm salute, he lowered his hand and stood straight.

"Well then!" he chimed. "What shall you have be do, sir? Because I really want to be a big help, and I really just want to make you and the Queen and all the soldiers that I harbour proud, you know! Is there anything that I can do?"

He watched the boy dance around, a chuckle forming on his lips, but his face returned to it's serious-duty visage when he turned around and saluted again. "Alright, now. The fact of the matter is, I need someone to look out for German spies on my behalf, here in the United Kingdom. I'm never sure who could be one, and no one would trust me enough to talk about it near me. However, you're a sweet, innocent little boy. An idiotic German would have no issue spilling secrets around you, or even saying that he is a spy!" he nodded firmly to emphasize his point, then beckoned Peter over to the stairwell, heading down towards his cellar.

Once downstairs he turned on the dim little light, fiddling around in old crates and trunks until he came up with what appeared to be a small wooden pistol with a cork in the barrel. "Now this, this is very special and will help you on your mission. It's been specially designed, and contains particular fairy bullets. When you pull the trigger, off pops the cork, and out comes the fairy magick. If you point it at someone who's not a German, nothing will happen, or they might just fall over for a little bit. But if you shoot a real German, bang! He's dead and gone. You could save hundreds of lives, or even the entire empire by making sure that a German doesn't take valuable information back to Hitler!" He held the pistol reverently out to the boy, hoping that he would believe the slightly fantastic tale. "So I need you to take this, and keep your eyes and ears open wide. I want to make sure that not a single one escapes!"

"The Fae's magic is in these, sir?" Peter echoed, staring at the rifle in glee. "Oh, oh sir! This is perfect! I've seen the Fae, you know, sometimes they come and are nightlights for my bedside! Since my room is so small and dark, they sometimes come! I figure that you send them, sir, to make sure that we're all very safe…oh! This is perfect!" he happily—almost greedily—grabbed the rifle, examining and stroking it carefully.

"Oh, this is perfect," he gushed. "Thank you so much, father, sir. It—oh, thank you, thank you! I promise I'll always be on the lookout for spies and if I see one—bam! there you have it! They'll be deader then a doornail! Gone with the wind! Offed by the one and only Her Majesty's Fort Roughs!" he grinned. "Thank you so, sir, thank you so much!"

Arthur couldn't hold in his grin at the child's enthusiasm. He was just so sweet and precious and willing to help with the bravest of tasks. "I'm sure they will. You'll give them a real what-for and they'll think twice about trying to steal secrets from us! And if you do well, I'll make sure to award you a nice badge of honor, just like the rest of the soldiers! You'll probably be the youngest boy ever to get one." He patted Peter's cheek affectionately, still smiling away. It had been so long since he'd last felt like a genuine father, that this moment was utterly golden to him. He wouldn't have traded that look in Peter's eyes away for the whole entire world, free of Nazis.

"Let's go back upstairs and get the brave soldier a snack, shall we? How about some crisps and a sandwich?"

Peter nodded his head, positioning the gun and taking aim at nothing. "Right, sir!" he added, grinning up at the other. "You know, I'm going to do my best to protect you! 's my job, sir, and a very important one at that!"


End file.
